Varanasi

It remains.
It remains dreaming at night that I still wander, light and deep at the same time, around these alleys, crowded with men, women, cows, dogs, goats, motorbikes. Suspended between the smell of samosa frying in front of me and the one of the next pile of wastes just around the corner.
It remains searching where the heart beats faster, believing, making that further step, getting in, sitting down and waiting.
It remains the joy of the days where I manage to feel in harmony with this foolish micro-world which is around me, and the frustration of those when I remain a stranger to all this, distant, afraid. And the confirmation, if ever I would still need it, that what I photograph is always the mirror of my inner world.
It remains the desire to come back, again and again, in the same place. A spot in a ghat, any. Just sitting down and remaining, for hours. Until the striking gestures do not impress me anymore, and a wonderful world unfolds: the one of the small, suspended gestures, of delicate expressions of feelings, of everyday life and its burning visual power.
Varanasi.